That Change Will Do You Good
by SilverKitsune1
Summary: Sailors beware the Grey Man and give freely to the Man of Hunger. Be thankful for the Red-Haired Man, but avoid the Dark Man.


Title: That Change Will Do You Good

Author: Silverkitsune

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: Static Shock is the property of the WB and all other associated networks and creators.

Authors Note: Should I be working on the next chapter of The Best Laid Plans? Why, yes. Yes I should be. Unfortunately, I'm having a wee bit of writer's block where the plot is concerned. Then I got distracted by this idea, and it just wouldn't leave me alone until I'd finished it.

Ritchie was in love. He had never been in love before, but he knew that this had to be love. No other emotion could have knocked the breath straight out of his body, while being so pleasurable it almost hurt. He wondered who had been behind the blueprints of something so wonderful. He wondered how the world could continue to spin while something that held such blinding brilliance was resting at its feet. He wondered if he was going to get in trouble for leaving finger prints on the glass.

Ritchie would have very well stood there for the rest of the night, staring and wondering if a hand had not grabbed his shoulder. The physical contact jerked him out of the dreamy haze he had been navigating, rudely tossing him back into the real world.

"What are you looking at?" Virgil asked peering over Ritchie's shoulder. "Whoa! Look at all the cool stuff."

Ritchie nodded wistfully, "Yep. New store, called Sidhe."

"Check out the games! Check out that lap top." Virgil whistled. "Wow. That thing would cover the cost of both our college educations."

"Only if we both wanted to be doctors," Ritchie said his eyes still fixated on the objects sitting behind the glass window. His mind was on fire at the sheer possibilities of what he could do with half of the equipment behind the glass.

"Oh, gross," Virgil said his nose wrinkling in disgust. "Looks like most of these things were made by Alva Industries."

Ritchie snorted. "I would face a 1000 Alvas for a moment at that computer's keyboard," he said motioning towards the elegant looking lap top that was on display. He was already beginning to map out the beginnings of a complex computer program that he would have been honored to save on her hard drive.

Virgil grabbed Ritchie's arm. "Ok, that's creepy. Now come on, the bus awaits."

Virgil pulled, but Ritchie held his ground.

"Richard Shamus Foley," Virgil snapped.

"My middle name is Osborn," Ritchie said casually.

Virgil huffed in annoyance. "Well, I always thought you were more of a Shamus. Helps bring out the Irish in you. From now on you're middle name is Shamus. Now come on Shamus let's move."

Ritchie didn't respond. When Virgil picked a fight about nothing, it was the equivalent of a five year old stamping his foot and whining, "Pay attention to me!" He'd learned long ago that it was better to just ignore him.

Leaning forward, and pressing his nose against the glass, Ritchie squinted in an attempt to get a better look at the machine's finer details. He was unprepared for the hand that grabbed him by the collar, and began dragging him towards the mall exit.

"Bus Ritch, the bus," Virgil said.

Ritchie twisted around. "The next one comes at 10:30 we can just wait for that one."

"Curfew, Ritch the curfew," Virgil explained patiently.

Ritchie made an attempt to pull away. "Come on ever since your dad found out about our little after school activities he hadn't been enforcing your curfew!"

"Your dad Ritch, your dad."

"Oh, yeah." Looking back in longing Ritchie sighed and untangled Virgil's hand from the back of his shirt.

"Parting is such sweet sorrow," he mumbled.

The next day, right after school, Ritchie hopped onto the 3:30 bus to Cherry Orchard Mall and went back to visit computer geek paradise. This time he actually ventured into the store.

A short stocky man with a long hooked nose and curly red hair greeted him. The dark red shirt and blood red tie he wore looked as though they had been color coordinated to match his hair, with black jeans, and black sneakers finishing off the outfit. The shoelaces were a dark red as well. Green eyes studied Ritchie from under a pair of bushy eyebrows as he entered.

"Can I help you find anything?" he asked flashing Ritchie a crooked grin.

Ritchie shook his head, and kept walking. "I'm just looking around."

He decided to get a closer look at the lap top that had caught his attention the day before. Thin, stylish, and black in color, it had a large **A**, the trade mark symbol of Alva Industries, stamped above the keyboard. There was another marking directly behind it that Ritchie was unfamiliar with. A small Celtic knot. His mind kicked into gear filing through the mass of symbols and corporate logos he had seen and mentally filed away, but he came up empty handed. Shrugging the thought away, he turned his attention onto more interesting things.

_God I hope I'm not drooling,_ he thought giddily.

"You're looking at one of the newest models," the red haired sales man said appearing suddenly. "Do you like it?"

"Are you kidding?" Ritchie breathed. "It's amazing."

"It's new," the red haired man answered. "I've gotten some people interested in it, but not one sale yet."

"That's because it's also amazingly expensive," Ritchie said dryly.

The red haired man laughed. "Damn right it is."

A ringing phone ended their brief conversation, and the red haired man scuttled behind the counter to answer it. He was only gone for a few minutes, when a harsh epithet echoed through the store. Ritchie startled at the sound. The red haired man was still behind the counter, the phone cradled between his cheek and shoulder. Bending over the computer he looked as though he was only moments away from drop kicking the machine. Ritchie took a look around, and felt grateful that he was the only other person in the store.

"Problems?" Ritchie asked.

"The fucking program locked up on me," the red haired man snapped.

"Mind if I try?" Ritchie asked, surprising himself. He'd never shown teachers, let alone strangers, just how good he was when it came to anything with a hard drive. It was just too risky.

With an exasperated gesture, the red haired man moved to the side.

To Ritchie's relief, it wasn't that difficult of a problem. Nothing any run-of-the-mill hacker couldn't have figured out, and he had the system up and running within a few seconds.

"Done!" he announced.

The red haired man shoved him roughly to the side, motioning for Ritchie to stay put. Once the phone was safely resting in its cradle, the red haired man turned back to him. "Nice work. You saved my ass."

Ritchie rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed, and flattered. "I'm just good with computers."

The red haired man looked Ritchie over thoughtfully. "You want a job?"

"What?"

The red haired man leaned against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. "Do you want to know how many employees are currently working at this store? Two. You want to know who has to work for a whole day, without a lunch break because there are only two people and person two happens to be called away every other day? Me."

"I'm pretty sure that's illegal," Ritchie said. "In fact, I'm pretty sure that breaks at least two or three labor laws."

The red haired man shook his head and rolled his eyes. "It's complicated. Don't worry about it. But another employee would give me time to eat, and go out for a smoke. What do you say?"

"Yeah," Ritchie said slowly a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "That would be great."

The house was cold when Ritchie got back. The autumn air slid in through the open kitchen windows coating each tiled surface. Practically skipping into the kitchen, he made his way to the fridge. Emerging with a soda, he turned and practically body slammed his father.

"Oh, um dad sorry," he stuttered.

"It's ok," he father grunted. Reaching past Ritchie, he grabbed a soda out of the fridge and shut the door behind him.

"What are you so happy about?" he asked looking quizzically at his son.

"I-ah-I got a job."

His father raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Where?"

"The mall," Ritchie answered. "At a new computer store called Sidhe. It's down by the fountain near the food court. I think it's only been open for a few weeks, because I've never seen it before and I like to think I know every computer store in the mall, and the surrounding areas too."

Nodding Michael Foley cracked open his coke and took a long pull.

"That's good," he said after finishing, his voice a little strained from the soda. "What are they paying you?"

"They said they'd start me at $6.15 an hour," Ritchie said passing his own un-opened can from hand to hand. He was fidgeting.

"More than minimum wage," Mr. Foley said approvingly. "Good work."

As he left the kitchen he gave Ritchie an affectionate slap on the shoulder. "You're good with computers. This will be good."

Ritchie stood in the kitchen, holding the soda limply in his hand. Compliments or conversation in general between him and his father were rare. He was half way to his room before he realized that he was grinning like an idiot.

The red haired man's name turned out to be Flynn, and despite the fact that he made Ritchie take out the garbage every night, he liked working with him. The work itself wasn't hard either. Apparently, the past two years of translating technical gibberish into English for Virgil had been outstanding preparation for selling lap tops to clueless college students. The boredom that went hand-in-hand with the job was also something that he could deal with. Virgil sometimes managed to stop by, and Flynn was a riot to watch. While Ritchie did his best to make customers understand what they were buying, the rough tongued employee took an almost sickening pleasure in throwing out any technical term that had more than five syllables. Ritchie had once asked him why he made it so confusing. Flynn, smiling gleefully at him said, "Nothing strikes more terror in the heart of today's man than that of computer jargon."

Whatever that meant.

Remarkably, Flynn still managed to sell whatever he was showing. He was also the one who told Ritchie about the new symbol he'd seen on the lap top his first day in the store.

"New branch of Alva industries," Flynn explained, pulling a cigarette out of his pocket as he stood behind the counter one day. Ritchie shook his head when Flynn offered him one. "It's being run by some guy who's lower on the food chain, hell if I know who."

"Are you supposed to be smoking in here?" Ritchie asked with a raised eyebrow.

Flynn pulled out his lighter.

"You're so going to get fired, man" Ritchie had said shaking his head. He hated to admit it, but Flynn's up front distain for even the simplest of rules was part of the reason he liked him so much.

"Doubtful," Flynn replied blowing smoke into the teenager's face.

Occasionally, it felt odd that he was working for Alva of all people, but since he and Static had healed Edwin Alva Jr., and managed to keep Omnara from destroying half the city, there had been a grudging truce between the two groups, and he didn't feel that bad about it. He was only selling computers.

Any doubts he did have about working at Sidhe were wiped away when he was presented with his first pay check.

"See this Virgil," Ritchie crowed with triumph, waving the rectangular piece of paper under his friend's nose as they pulled their shoes off in Ritchie's front hallway. "This is what we call a pay check. I know the concept is a bit foreign to you, but please allow the working man to explain. I promise to use small words."

He got a smack on the back of his head for that.

"So working man," Virgil said following Ritchie into the kitchen. "Does this mean you'll be the one paying for the pizza from now on?"

"Oh, Virgil," Ritchie said in mock horror. He pulled open the fridge and handed Virgil a soda. "My first check and already you're using me for my money."

Virgil rolled his eyes. "Dumb ass."

The other boy's smile suddenly disappeared, replaced with a rather cautious look, and his gaze went over Ritchie's head. Curious, Ritchie turned. His father stood in the doorway.

"Dad," Ritchie squeaked. The muscles in his shoulder blades suddenly tensed up, his grip on the refrigerator door tightening.

"Hey Mr. Foley," Virgil said with a wane smile.

"Hello Virgil," Mr. Foley said. "How are you?"

Virgil seemed a bit taken back. "Um, I'm good. Very good. Couldn't be better. Fantastic actually."

Mr. Foley nodded, looking every bit as uncomfortable as Virgil. "That's good to hear."

Virgil shifted from foot to foot. "Yep."

"Ritchie," Mr. Foley said turning his attention away from Virgil. "I got called back to work, and your mom's working late. There's one of those frozen pizza things in the freezer in case you guys get hungry."

"Ok, dad," Ritchie said.

There was silence. Ritchie stood between the two of them, wondering when the hell his genius IQ was going to step in and help him out.

"I'll be back late," Mr. Foley finally said pulling his coat on as he headed towards the door. "Oh, and Virgil."

Virgil looked up. "Yeah?"

"Tell your dad I say hello."

"Will do," Virgil said.

The door shut with a bang, and the two boys let out a collective sigh of relief.

"Well," Virgil said. "That was painfully awkward."

"Awkward, but surprising," Ritchie said slowly. His stomach, which only moments before had being going for the gold metal in Olympic gymnastics, was calming down.

Virgil shrugged, and smiled at him.

"Who says people can't change." Nudging Ritchie with his elbow, Virgil made a motion towards the freezer. "Come on working man, this superhero is hungry."

It wasn't until Ritchie had been working at Sidhe for almost two months, that he finally met the store's third employee. The mall was already closed, and he'd come back from depositing the garbage outside of the store for the cleaning crews to pick up when he found Flynn sitting in the break room with a man he didn't know. They made an interesting pair. Where Flynn, with his fire engine red hair and trademark red outfit was short and squat, the man sitting across the table from him was tall and lean. Black jeans, led to black boots. He wore a loose fitting black t-shirt with a black leather jacket hanging over the back of the chair. His black hair and eyes enhanced his pale skin making him look translucent under the humming florescent lights. Three silver earrings glittered from his left ear, and a black motorcycle helmet rested on the table between them.

"Ritchie," Flynn said waving him over. "This is Far Dorocha, our useless third employee. Call him Dorrie. Dorrie meet Ritchie our useful employee."

"Hey," Ritchie greeted.

The dark man nodded, his back ramrod straight, but didn't speak.

"You'll have to excuse Dorrie, he doesn't say much," Flynn said. "Never has, but sit down Ritchie. Have a drink with us."

"I don't drink," Ritchie said taking a seat. "Alcoholism has this nasty tendency to run in my family. Why tempt the fates?"

"A pop then," Flynn said taking a can from Dorrie and sliding it across the table.

Catching the drink, Ritchie settled back into his chair. After standing for six hours his feet killed, and it was nice to be able to sit.

"You know," Flynn said, cracking open his beer. "I have to tell you Ritchie, and I do believe we know each other well enough for me to say this, that I'm very disappointed at your name."

"What?" Ritchie asked blinking at the shorter man owlishly.

"Foley is a name that Irish heritage practically drips off of," Flynn explained. "I've known quite a few of them in fact. But your first name has more of an English heritage attached to it. Richard the III, Richard the Lionhearted you see what I mean." He winked at Dorrie who didn't seem to be paying much attention. "You have a good Irish surname like Foley, your mother's name is Maggie, your father's name is Michael and they stick you with Richard as a first name." Flynn disapprovingly tisked. "What were your parents thinking?"

"I'm named after a friend of the family," Ritchie said puzzled.

"She'd liked you, you know. Unfortunate first name or not," Flynn said his eyes glazing over, looking at an image no one else could see. "It's always fun at her court. There's always someone to fuck with when I get too bored. All she ever wants is a bit of song, a poet, a pretty boy for the night." He sighed wistfully.

"He gets them there," he continued nodding in Dorrie's direction. "And, most of the time, I take them home." He smiled broadly at a sudden memory. "Whether she likes it or not, I usually take them home. The hissy fits she throws when she wakes up the next day and finds them gone. Oh, they're beautiful."

"How many have you had?" Ritchie asked. The speech was odd, even for Flynn who Ritchie considered to be one of the most eccentric people he'd ever met. Now was probably a good time for him to leave. Flynn's friend could take him home, and get him sobered up. Virgil had agreed to meet him outside tonight anyway so the two of them could patrol. Ritchie could wait outside until he showed up. Putting down his pop can, he moved to stand, and found that he couldn't. Surprised, he tried again, but it was as though the signals from his brain to his legs were being interrupted.

"I have to go," Ritchie said looking at Flynn. He felt as though he was moving underwater, his legs and arms filled with lead. He tried to stand again, but still nothing happened.

"Stay Ritch," Flynn said. "Far Dorocha can give you a ride."

Something in Ritchie's whirling mind suddenly clicked, and the pieces of never ending information streaming through his brain suddenly formed a pattern.

"Far Dorocha. Gaelic name._ Far meaning "man" and dorocha meaning "dark."_ Shortened form being Dorrie," he mumbled. "Flynn, also a Gaelic name that means heir to the Redheaded. Far Darrig, the Red Man."

"You're a smart kid," Flynn said impressed.

Ritchie didn't remember why he'd said any of that out loud. He pulled his glasses up and pinched the bridge of his nose. God he felt weird. With his glasses still pushed up to his forehead, the two men across the table look like nothing more than large red and black blurs.

"Oh," he mumbled letting his glasses fall back down. "How clever."

The next piece of information presented was a memory. He was five, and sitting in his old home back in Chicago where they'd briefly lived with his granny before coming to Dakota. His dad's voice broke through the fog that was slowly clouding his brain.

"Sailors beware of the Grey Man, and give freely to the man of Hunger. Be thankful for the Red-Haired Man, but beware, and avoid the Dark Man."

"I need to go," Ritchie tried telling Flynn again. His head felt like it was wrapped in cotton, his tongue made of sandpaper. Worried, he looked down at the pop can. Had he been drugged? What reason could Flynn have for drugging him?

"You know what? You're right. Better take him along then Dorrie." Flynn's expression suddenly softened, and he gave Ritchie a pat on the hand. "Don't worry kid. I'll come by later and take you home. It's what I do."

Ritchie gave his head a sharp shake. What was going on?

When Dorrie stood, Ritchie's body responded and he shot out of his seat. Handing him the helmet, Dorrie motioned for Ritchie to follow. As they made their way out the door and into the parking lot, Ritchie's mind and body began shrieking in protest. He did not want to go with this man, but no matter what he did he couldn't get his legs to respond.

Outside the air was chilly, the sky dark. Tilting his head back he could see clusters of stars and the occasional constellation. The three bright stars that made up Orion the hunter's belt, winked back at him.

Dorrie stopped in front of an impressive looking black motorcycle. It was a nice touch to the bad boy cliché that Dorrie's all black ensemble presented. Ritchie wasn't sure whether he should be impressed or just roll his eyes. Sliding the helmet on, Ritchie looked back at the mall exit one last time before climbing onto the back of the bike where Dorrie waited patiently, the engine already purring.

He'd never been on the back of a motorcycle. The wind whipped by and the road looked as though it were a long stretch of still black water.

When the ride ended, Ritchie jumped off, and ripped the helmet from his head. Looking up, he groaned at the sight of one of Alva's office buildings standing in front of him.

"Why do I not like where this is going?" Ritchie mumbled to himself.

Dorrie strolled past him, heading for the large glass doors, and despite a brief attempt at running in the opposite direction Ritchie found himself following.

"Oh, I really, really, really don't like where this is going," he muttered.

Trailing after Dorrie, Ritchie walked past the attentive security guard who nodded as Dorrie passed, but eyed Ritchie suspiciously.

_Yes, you idiot yes! _Ritchie thought desperately. _I'm a troublesome, teenage, punk who has no business being in such a prestigious building at this time of night. Stop me! Call the police! Don't let me through! _

But the security guard only scowled at him, and went back to studying the monitors. Ritchie kept his eyes on him, mentally begging for assistance until he stepped into the elevator, and watched the golden doors slide shut.

When they slid back open they were 13 stories in the air. Ritchie stepped out onto the flat blue carpet of an impressive looking office. Twisting his neck around, he drank in the wood paneling, large glass windows, and tall oak desk where a lap topwas happily humming away. When he reached the middle of the room, he stopped.

Dorrie continued moving forward, walking behind the desk and settled comfortably in the cushy leather chair.

"Your desk?" Ritchie asked curiously.

Dorrie didn't answer, but gave the glinting metal name plate on the corner a tap. Wishing that his legs would go back to obeying their proper lord and master, Ritchie pulled his glasses off, and cleaned them with the back of his shirt sleeve. Putting them back on, he squinted and leaned forward.

"Edwin Alva Jr.," he read out loud. "Oh, this just makes me feel so much better."

"It should," a voice from behind him said. "You could be in my father's office."

Ritchie tried with some difficulty to twist his body around.

"I'm sorry. I forgot about that." the voice said again. "Far Dorocha if you would."

His legs were suddenly unlocked, and Ritchie gratefully turned around to see Edwin Alva Jr. closing the office door.

"You brought him," Edwin said crossing the room. "I knew you would."

"Um, hello," Ritchie snapped. "What's going on?"

Edwin smiled at him. "Are you Richard Foley?"

"Yes," he said, curious.

"Then you're my Static bait." He paused. "Or should I call you my Virgil Hawkins bait?"

The verbal barb that Ritchie had been ready to fire died in his throat. He knew there was something they'd forgotten to follow up on after curing Edwin. Come to think of it. How many people knew Static's secret identity by now? Five? Maybe six? Was he supposed to count himself and Mr. Hawkins or just the bad guys? Superman probably never had this problem.

"What are you talking about?" Ritchie asked. Rule one of being used as bait. Act as stupid as humanly possible.

Edwin smirked. "Don't play stupid, you know who Static really is under that mask. What kind of side-kick would you be if you didn't?"

Ritchie grimaced. Plan A had just been catapulted right out the window.

"I knew it," Edwin said. "I bet you're wondering about Dorrie too."

"He's Far Dorocha, the Dark Man from Irish folklore," Ritchie shot back. "And Flynn is Far Darrig the Red Man. I figured that out back at the mall. You left enough clues lying around." He allowed himself a few seconds to drink in Edwin's shocked look. "Did you have an Irish Granny too? Neither of them are very well known, so unless you have a passion for folklore I don't know where else you would have heard their names."

"How did you figure it out?" Edwin sputtered.

"Do I have to do paint my IQ on my forehead? I'm a genius. Why does everybody keep forgetting that?" Ritchie asked exasperated. Muttering to himself, Ritchie shoved his hands in his pockets. "That, and in the past three years I've met more Bang Babies than I can count. I've become one myself. I've met superheroes, mutants, and been taken over by the most powerful supervillan in the entire universe. Neither Dorrie or Flynn felt, looked or moved like any of those." Ritchie gave Dorrie, who was resting his clunky black boots on top of the oak desk, a long look. "The color coding sort of tipped me off too."

Stepping away from Edwin, Ritchie moved to the other side of the desk putting as much space as he could between the two of them. "I just haven't figured out how you got your hands on mythical Irish fairies yet."

Edwin followed, closing the space with a few long strides until the two boys stood nose-to-nose. "I went to Ireland, moron. Do you know what happened after I got cured on that island? My father took me home, and for an entire week he spent time with me. I think it had to be some sort of record. But when the week ended, he didn't just start ignoring me again. I think I could have been alright with that because that would have been a return to something I was familiar with. This time he shipped me across the Atlantic Ocean to get me out of the way. The bastard couldn't even keep me on the same continent this time."

Ritchie folded his arms over his chest. "And what? They were handing out archaic creatures of folklore at customs?"

"No, but I had a nice long talk with my aunt. And you know what I realized?" Edwin asked softly. "My father loves me, but he will never see anything of value in me. He will never take time away from his business to spend time with me. He will never understand or give worth to the things that I deem important. I was an idiot to think that things between us would change. No matter how much I want him too, my father can't change. People can't change. They're incapable of it.

"I want to start living my own life, and to do that I obviously have to cut him out of it. I have to make him and everything ever connected to him disappear. Static is one of the largest connections my father and I have with one another. Killing him is the first part of all of this. Making enough money to disappear, and get out of Dakota is the second. My aunt agreed. Someone owed her a favor, and I got to borrow these two. They're helping me win a life of my own."

"No," Ritchie said shaking his head in disbelief. "You're wrong. Cutting someone out of your life won't make them go away. It only makes them into ghosts, and they will haunt you for the rest of your life. People can change. Sometimes they don't, a lot of times they don't, but they still can. You just have to give them time. Maybe, I can't believe I'm going to say this about Alva, but maybe your dad is changing, and you just haven't been looking hard enough to see any evidence. It's hard, and sometimes it takes a long time to see anything worth noting. Maybe he pushed you away because he was changing and it was so new it scared him."

Edwin spun away, storming to the other side of the room. "Shut up."

There was no dramatic entrance. No light or popping sound, but suddenly there was Flynn standing behind the chair Dorrie had set up shop in.

"I missed the battle of wits and words?" he said pouting in disappointment. "Who won? I hope it was you Ritchie, I had my next weeks pay check on you." Edwin glared at him. "Oh yeah. My good lord, Static's on his way. He should be here any second."

"Good." Edwin said his tone short and crisp. "That's very good. I'm ready for him."

"You're delusional," Ritchie spat. "You're a spoiled, spineless, attention seeking, brat. If anyone hasn't changed in the last year it's you Edwin."

"Far Dorocha," Edwin said calmly. "Break his wrist."

Started Ritchie's eyes widened. "What?"

He got no answer. Far Dorocha was next to him in half the time it took to take a breath, holding Ritchie's right wrist between his pale hands. There was a sharp crack, like the sound of a tree branch snapping in two. For all of ten seconds Ritchie felt nothing. Then the pain washed over his hand and wrist like a wave of liquid fire.

"Jesus!" he hissed trying to pull away, bur Far Dorocha held on and began to squeeze.

"Stop!" he wailed. "Let go! Let go!"

Ritchie could feel the bones moving underneath his skin. Later, when he would think back on it, he would be amused to learn that his brain didn't even have the decency to shut down under the immense pain that came with a bone fracture. He was presented with an in-depth understanding of just how much tissue damages he was sustaining, the type of fracture he probably had and just how much surgery was going to cost if Far Dorocha increased the pressure of his grip. He could feel his knees begin to buckle.

A flash of light suddenly blinded him. It engulfed Far Dorocha, who released Ritchie and was knocked several feet away.

Ritchie fell flat on his back. Holding his wrist protectively against his chest, he greedily swallowed oxygen as he fought back against the lightheadedness and nausea that throbbed through his body. His face was wet.

"Are you, ok?" Virgil asked his worried face appearing over Ritchie's.

"Sure," Ritchie said through gritted teeth.

Grabbing his shoulders from behind, Virgil pulled Ritchie into a sitting position.

"Far Dorocha, rip him apart," Edwin called out.

Scrambling to his feet, Virgil stood in front of Ritchie and threw a blast at the dark figure. Far Dorocha stepped calmly to the side, and leaped across the remaining few feet, coming at them like a nightmarishly swift shadow.

"Virgil move!" Ritchie gasped. He kicked the back of Virgil's knees causing the other teenager to drop. Far Dorocha sailed over their heads.

"Don't let him touch you," Ritchie said frantically. "That one can make muscles wither with just a touch. Attack him from a distance."

"Nice. Does he have any weaknesses?" Virgil asked already back on his feet, and helping Ritchie up.

"Don't suppose you have anything made out of solid iron on you?"

Virgil looked confused. "What are you-? Whoa!"

Far Dorocha had regained his footing and was coming at them again. He reached for Virgil's left arm, and the teenage superhero jerked back colliding with Ritchie. Survival instincts kicked in, and as he pulled back, Virgil threw out a fist full of energy the size of a baseball into the Dark Man's face. It exploded, and Far Dorocha jerked away form the two of them his hands rubbing his eyes frantically. His mouth was open, but no cry emerged. Just a loud heavy breathing.

Taking advantage of Far Dorocha's temporary blindness, Ritchie grabbed Virgil's jacket with his good hand and dragged the other boy behind Edwin's desk. Flynn was still sitting quite comfortably on the top.

"You two are putting up one hell of a fight. It's brilliant to watch," Flynn said gleefully.

"Flynn, help me," Ritchie begged.

"Sorry kid," Flynn said tousling Ritchie's hair fondly. "Not my style, not my job. I'll help you out after it's all over, but not during. Besides you're a smart kid. You'll figure something out."

Panting, Virgil turned to look at Flynn. "What kind of freaky Bang Baby is this guy?"

"He's not a Bang Baby." Ritchie said. "He's a fairy."

Virgil looked skeptical. "Did they drug you?"

Ignoring Virgil, Ritchie grabbed the nearest desk drawer and yanked it open. "Just help find something made of iron or steel. A bag of nails, a horseshoe, a lightning rod, anything!" Dumping the drawer's continence onto the blue carpet he growled at the lack of useful items. He was holding his broken wrist protectively against his chest trying not to jar it, and doing a miserable job.

"I hate to tell you this, laddies," Flynn said, "but Dorrie is coming back."

Ritchie began to stand and was pushed right back down by Virgil. Unprepared for the move, he reacted by throwing his hands out to brace his fall. A hot wave of pain washed over his right wrist, moving swiftly through the rest of his body.

"Why did you do that?" he wailed when the pain subsided and he could breathe again. Using the desk as a crutch he stood. Virgil had created a wall of brightly crackling electricity around the desk. Though he couldn't see him, Ritchie knew that Far Dorocha was prowling its edges.

"Sorry," Virgil said looking sheepish.

"You can't keep that up forever," Edwin called from the other side of the glowing wall. "You're only draining yourself. It makes you that much easier to kill."

"Isn't it annoying when they're right?" Virgil said his tone dry.

Ritchie grabbed the next desk drawer by the handled, and yanked the entire thing off of its runners. Emptying its continence on the desk, he threw the drawer to the side and pawed through the clutter of items. "Pens, calculator, note pad, paperclips, copy of Weetzie Bat, day planner. Damn it!"

"What about my board Ritchie?" Virgil asked suddenly.

Ritchie shook his head. "No, I remade it out of a much lighter alloy called…wait wait!!"

The blond teenager practically threw himself at Virgil, reaching into his friend's Static coat and patting him down with his good hand.

Virgil looked puzzled. "Ritchie what are you doing?"

"A zap cap, tell me you have at least one zap cap on you!"

"Sure it's in my-"

"Got it!" Ritchie cried pulling the small round ball out from the folds of Virgil's costume. "Virgil, cut off some of the power you're feeding into that shield."

Virgil nodded and immediately the electric hum died down. The wavy white outline of Virgil's power could still be seen at the top and bottom of the electric wall, but the center was clear if a bit distorted. Far Dorocha was behind them, his expression still blank and patient.

"On three drop the shield," Ritchie said cradling the zap cap in his left hand.

"Are you sure?" Virgil asked.

"Yes," Ritchie said. "Ready? One, two, three!"

The remnants of Virgil's power flickered, waved and then disappeared. Far Dorocha took a step in their direction. He seemed to glide across the carpet, covering as much ground in one step as he would have in a leap.

Ritchie threw the zap cap. It sprang open, wrapping its long spindly steal legs around the Dark Man's knees, torso and arms. Far Dorocha made no sound even when his body hit the ground.

"How long is that going to hold him?" Virgil asked nervously his body tense and ready to move.

"That will hold him until one of you releases him," Flynn broke in swinging his legs off the desk. "It's made of steel I'm assuming."

Without waiting for an answer, Flynn sauntered over to Far Dorocha, and leaned over the unmoving fey. "That was fucking horrible Dorrie. Centuries of a hard eared reputation right down the crapper. I'm ashamed to say that I know you."

Far Dorocha blinked three times slowly.

"Then again," Flynn said. "You always did hate these sorts of things."

"Where's Edwin?" Ritchie suddenly asked.

The gun shot came from the left. It encompassed the room, silencing all other sounds like a swiftly slit throat. For two seconds, Ritchie was back at the community center standing in front of Jimmy. For two seconds a pain flared in his upper thy, where a bullet had once torn through his skin. And for two seconds his heart took up residence in his throat, as he realized who the gun was pointed at. Then the two seconds passed. The community center and the imaginary pain both disappeared, but his heart stayed firmly lodged in his esophagus. The shock replaced by a sickening feeling in his stomach.

"Where are you hit?" Ritchie gasped spinning Virgil around frantically running his hands over his friend's chest. To his surprise, he found no gapping bullet holes. "There's no blood. You're not bleeding to death."

Virgil was looking down at the place where Ritchie's hands still rested. "So this is what a heart attack feels like."

Another shot cracked the brief silence. Both boys dropped, rolling away from one another. Pain was once again throbbing through Ritchie's wrist.

_If I'm alive by tomorrow morning, I'm going to need surgery on this thing_, he thought miserably.

"Virgil?" he called.

"I'm fine. You fine?"

"Yeah."

"You shouldn't be," Edwin exclaimed from across the room, the warm gun in his hand still aimed at Virgil. "I shot you! Twice! You should be dead!"

The giggling was faint and thin at first. Ritchie was sure he was imagining it, but as it grew in volume there was no denying its existence, or its source.

"Seems you're shooting blanks my lad," Flynn said in between his high pitched giggles.

"What did you do Far Darrig?" Edwin asked angrily. "You're under my command."

"Laddie buck!" Flynn barked between laughs. "You really should have paid more attention to your aunt when she spun tales. Did you really thing that the Red Man would take orders from such a spoiled puppy without having a larger agenda to attend to?"

Edwin scowled. "What are you talking about?"

Flynn jumped off the desk, rubbing his large awkward hands together. "Nothing that concerns you anymore."

"No, this is mine," Edwin cried. "You and him, you're mine until the end of it."

A slow crooked smile slid over Flynn's face. He placed a hand on Edwin's thin shoulder. "In five seconds you're not even going to remember what you wanted the 'end of it' to be."

Edwin's mouth dropped open. He took a breath, ready to begin shouting, and then his eyes glazed over.

"What did you do to him?" Ritchie asked.

"Nothing that will hurt him," Flynn said. "He's just going to forget a few choice details about the last few months. I also took the liberty of removing the information about your identities"

"Thanks," Virgil said scratching his head. "What's going on?"  
"Be thankful to the Red Man," Ritchie mumbled thoughtfully. "I always thought those were just stories."

"According to those stories I also get off on human terror," Flynn said casually. "Now if one of you would kindly untie Dorrie."

Virgil shook his head, dreadlocks flapping. "No way am I untying tall, dark and psychotic over there."

"Oh, don't worry about him," Flynn assured. "Gentle as a kitten when he's not following orders, he is. I suspect that the moment you untie him he'll be heading home anyway."

"Why don't you untie him," Virgil asked suspiciously.

"If his bonds weren't made of steel I would."

"I'll do it." Ritchie started forward, but the appearance of Virgil's hand on his shoulders stopped him.

"Yes, oh crippled one, that's a brilliant idea. If you really want your other wrist broken so badly why don't I just do it?"

The thought of another broken appendage was enough to give Ritchie second thoughts.

A small circle of electricity no bigger than a quarter appeared in between Virgil's finger tips. "We'll do it from over here."

Flicking it forward, the ball hit the coil that encircled Far Dorocha's legs. The bonds slackened, and Dorrie climbed carefully out of them.

"Nice trick," Flynn said with approval. "I suppose you'll be on your way then Dorrie. Say hello to her majesty for me." He paused. "Or mime it to her or something."

It could have been the increasing lightheadedness, but Ritchie thought he might have seen the twitch of an expression across Dorrie's face. He was gone before the teenager could be sure.

"Now for you young Edmund," Flynn said turning back to the unmoving teenager. "You've been a horrible sport, an annoying master and an overall rotten person. Trying to kill your greatest enemy? That's a horrible idea! Who else is going to keep things interesting in this sewage hole of a city? Go home, go to bed, and try not to be such an ass in the morning."

"Don't see how that's possible," Virgil grumbled.

The limp Edwin nodded. Without looking back he walked out of the room, closing the large office doors behind him.

"Crazy bastard," Flynn mumbled. "He's really got to stop blaming his father for everything and find a more original excuse." Grinning, he threw an arm around Ritchie and an arm around Virgil. "Well lads, I had loads of fun. It's too bad this can't continue, but as I did promise young Richard, it's time for me to take you home."

"I'd rather you take me to the emergency room," Ritchie said gingerly holding his wrist.

"I second that," Virgil said finally getting a closer look at his friend's fracture and not liking the sight.

Flynn nodded. "Fair enough."

Ritchie blinked and when he opened his eyes the three of them were standing in the parking lot of St. Luke's Hospital. Above them Ritchie could still see a handful of stars glittering down at him from in-between milky gray clouds.

"How do you do that?" Virgil asked in amazement.

"A very old trick," Flynn said. "I'd explain it if I thought your brain could take the strain of the information, but I have to be on my way."

Ritchie looked at him in disbelief. "I don't get any explanation for what just happened?"

Flynn smiled. "Nope. I like to keep an aura of mystery around my intentions at all times."

Ritchie rolled his eyes. "Of course you do."

Later, after his wrist had been set in a bright green plaster cast that went up to his elbow, Ritchie sat in the emergency room next to Virgil waiting for his parents to show up so he could leave. Virgil had snagged a thick black marker from one of the nurses and was in the middle of drawing a miniature Static across Ritchie's forearm.

"You should have stuck to stick figures," Ritchie said with a tired smile.

Virgil scoffed. He'd changed back into his street cloths. Besides a few cuts and bruises, he'd sustained no lasting injuries. "You're just upset that I'm not drawing a Mini-Gear."

"No," Ritchie said. "I'm upset that the world has to be subjected to your horrible art work for the next month."

"No great artist is appreciated in his own life time." Ritchie could feel the marker's movement halt. "Oh, damn."

"What?" Ritchie asked trying to see.

"Nothing," Virgil said quickly, covering the drawing with his free hand. "I just have to cross something out."

"You are not crossing anything out!" Ritchie said sternly. "You'll make it look worse than it already does."

"You have no faith in me."

"You are very right."

Virgil shook his head and went back to drawing.

Exhaustion was quickly catching up with Ritchie, and as Virgil drew he almost dozed off. Then Virgil spoke again.

"How did you know iron was going to work on that guy?" Virgil asked.

Ritchie cracked an eye open. "It's common knowledge in folk tales involving fairies that they're weak against iron. My dad used to tell me a lot of Irish folk tales when I was little."

Virgil raised his head to look Ritchie in the eye. "Your dad used to tell you stories about a guy called the Dark Man who can make muscles wither with a touch, and a guy called the Red Man whose likes include the color red, Irish first names and human terror when you were a kid?"

"Yep."

"You did not have a normal childhood," Virgil muttered.

Ritchie gave Virgil a crooked grin. "It was excellent preparation for my abnormal adolescents."

Scowling, Virgil snapped the cap onto the marker.

"I'm sorry about this by the way," Virgil said suddenly, motioning to Ritchie's cast.

"Wasn't your fault," Ritchie said in a matter–of-fact tone. "I'm just grateful that it didn't need surgery. Though, I am worried about how I'm going to explain to my parents why I'm sitting in the emergency room at 3 a.m."

Virgil made a face. "Yeah, what are we going to tell your parents?"

"I have no idea," Ritchie said. "You don't have to stick around for this, V. I didn't mention that you were here with me. Go now and save your self from the fire storm that will be my dad's anger."

Virgil waved the idea away. "Naw, that's ok. It won't be that bad."

Ritchie gave him a look.

"Ok, you're right," Virgil said. "This is going to suck more than it's ever sucked before."

Ritchie nodded. "But you know what? I'm glad he's coming. I'm going to get screamed at in front of multiple strangers, and I'm suddenly ok with it. Do you think that might be a result of the pain killers they gave me?"

Twirling the marker between his fingers, Virgil leaned back against the far wall. "Maybe, but future yelling events aside, you're dad does seem less hostile lately. More relaxed about things. Have you noticed? It's a nice change."

"You know," Ritchie said thoughtfully. "I have. And you're right. It is."

The conversation ended at that. As far as Ritchie was concerned, there was nothing more that needed to be said.


End file.
